In 1960s South Africa, under the shadow of apartheid, a young woman stumbled upon a banned novel by Nadine Gordimer tucked inside the shelves of a dusty university library. The book didn’t begin with protests or prison scenes—it opened with a domestic conversation between a white woman and her Black domestic worker. But through the quiet cadences of that dialogue, something else emerged: a structural violence too pervasive to be declared outright, yet impossible to ignore. The woman would later say that it was this book—not a manifesto or a political speech—that first made her question the system in which she was complicit. The novel hadn’t told her what to think. It had simply rearranged the way she listened. That shift was enough to change everything.In a nation's life, culture serves not merely as an embellishment but as a vital organ—breathing meaning, conscience, and reflection into its people's collective experience. Among the key elements of this cultural sphere are art, literature, and public discourse. Each plays an indispensable role in shaping, critiquing, and sustaining the very fabric of a functioning society.Art, in all its forms—painting, music, theatre, film, or dance—functions as both a mirror and a messenger. It reflects the values, struggles, and aspirations of a nation, offering a visual or auditory language through which citizens may recognise themselves and their histories. Yet it also dares to go further: to challenge authority, to question norms, and to speak truths that are often left unspoken in formal political arenas. A powerful mural on a crumbling wall or a protest song echoing in a public square can stir hearts, mobilise minds, and spark movements. In this way, art becomes not simply decorative but transformative—an instrument of both memory and momentum.According to The Politics of Aesthetics by Jacques Rancière (2013, Bloomsbury Academic, as translated and introduced by Gabriel Rockhill, with an afterword by Slavoj Žižek), art is never a neutral or purely decorative enterprise—it is, at its core, a profoundly political act. Rancière argues that every artistic expression participates in what he calls the distribution of the sensible—a philosophical concept that refers to how society organises what can be seen, heard, said, and thought.This “distribution” is not merely aesthetic, but political in nature, because it determines who gets to be visible in the public space, who has the right to speak and be heard, and which narratives are considered legitimate or marginalised. Artistic practices, in this sense, are not innocent acts of creativity or entertainment; rather, they shape and disrupt social hierarchies by altering the perceptual and discursive order of things.Rancière challenges the traditional dichotomy between art and politics by asserting that aesthetic experiences themselves reconfigure the very boundaries of political possibility. For example, a film that gives voice to the working class, or a novel that centres the experiences of the marginalised, doesn’t just tell a story—it reshapes the field of perception and challenges the dominant logic of who and what counts in the social order.This means that art has the capacity to redistribute roles, identities, and spaces, opening up new modes of visibility for those who are usually rendered invisible. It unsettles the conventional order by breaking into the symbolic space governed by power. As such, art can act as both a form of resistance and a space for imagining alternatives. It doesn't simply reflect reality—it actively reconfigures it.Therefore, in Rancière’s philosophy, the power of art lies not in its message, but in its capacity to rearrange the sensory and conceptual map of the world. Art disrupts not by being didactic or overtly political in a traditional sense, but by intervening in how we perceive time, space, speech, and silence. In this way, art becomes a battlefield—not of weapons, but of meaning, access, and recognition.In the context of nationhood and cultural expression, the term "artist" extends far beyond the conventional image of a painter in a studio or a poet lost in thought. An artist, in this broader civic sense, is anyone who uses creativity—whether visual, verbal, performative, or conceptual—to reflect, challenge, or reimagine the society they live in.This includes painters and sculptors, yes—but also playwrights, novelists, dancers, filmmakers, illustrators, musicians, theatre actors, graffiti artists, spoken word performers, digital creators, puppeteers, costume designers, and even meme-makers who inject wit and critique into the public sphere. Street performers, underground zine writers, protest banner designers, and indie video game creators can all be considered artists when their work holds up a mirror to society or offers alternative ways of seeing the world.In this sense, artists are not simply entertainers—they are sense-makers. They help us see what is often ignored, feel what has been numbed, and question what is taken for granted. They provoke thought, not merely applause. And in doing so, they serve the nation not from behind a podium, but from the edge of the stage, the margins of the internet, or the cracks in the pavement—reminding us that truth can come not only from authority, but from imagination.In How to Be an Artist (2020, Riverhead Books), Jerry Saltz argues that being an artist in times of crisis is both a political and spiritual act of significance. He contends that creating art is a means of asserting one's humanity and individuality in the face of widespread dehumanisation, uncertainty, and systemic failure. According to Saltz, art serves as a form of resistance—not necessarily through overt political messaging, but through the very act of making something personal, meaningful, and authentic. This act becomes inherently political because it challenges conformity, commodification, and the passive consumption encouraged by dominant social and economic structures.Saltz also frames art-making as a spiritual practice, suggesting that in a fragmented world, the process of creating offers a form of transcendence. It allows individuals to access deeper truths, confront pain, and affirm their existence. In a time when institutions falter and ideologies clash, he sees the artist’s role not as a luxury but as a necessity: someone who bears witness, gives form to chaos, and, in doing so, helps others feel less alone. For Saltz, then, to be an artist is not merely to produce aesthetic objects, but to engage in a deeply human struggle to make sense of the world and to contribute, however modestly, to its healing and transformation.In any nation that aspires to be not only governed but truly lived in, there is one group of cultural figures whose presence is often underestimated yet utterly essential: comedians. At first glance, they may seem to exist merely to entertain or distract. But look closer, and you’ll find that comedy, when done well, serves as one of the most honest and democratic tools a society possesses.Comedians are, in many ways, the court jesters of the modern era—not fools, but truth-tellers in disguise. Their craft allows them to speak the unspeakable, to point out hypocrisy, and to dismantle powerful figures—not with violence or outrage, but with laughter. In doing so, they help a society process its frustrations, question its assumptions, and confront its absurdities. A punchline can often do what a protest cannot: sneak under the armour of authority and strike at the heart of a lie.Beyond their ability to critique, comedians are also healers of sorts. In times of crisis or grief, laughter becomes a communal release—a way to affirm life in the face of hardship. The comedian steps into this space, reminding people that even in darkness, there is still room for joy, resilience, and shared humanity. They turn pain into punchlines, not to belittle suffering, but to make it bearable.Moreover, comedy often serves as a litmus test for freedom. In a truly open society, comedians are allowed to joke about politicians or power structures—without fear of imprisonment or censorship. Where humour is silenced, tyranny often lurks. But where satire flourishes, critical thought tends to thrive as well.In The Joke and Its Relation to the Unconscious (1905, Franz Deuticke), Sigmund Freud explores the idea that jokes—or "tendentious jokes" in particular—function as a psychological mechanism to express thoughts, desires, or criticisms that are otherwise repressed or socially unacceptable. According to Freud, jokes operate much like dreams, slips of the tongue, or neurotic symptoms; they serve as outlets through which the unconscious mind finds expression. In this context, humour becomes a socially permissible mask for what cannot be stated directly.Freud argues that jokes allow the speaker to bypass internal censorship and the inhibitions imposed by societal norms. By cloaking subversive or controversial content in laughter, the joke-teller gains access to a space of temporary freedom, where repressed truths—be they sexual, aggressive, or politically charged—can be released in a form that is both entertaining and seemingly harmless. The audience, too, participates in this process: their laughter is not only a response to the joke's wit but also an unconscious release of repressed content that resonates with their own internal conflicts or unspoken experiences.In a broader socio-political context, Freud's theory suggests that humour becomes a vehicle through which the public can critique authority, question norms, or confront uncomfortable realities without the risks associated with direct confrontation. A political joke, for instance, may offer veiled criticism of the ruling elite, cloaked in enough ambiguity or absurdity to avoid outright censorship. Thus, Freud's work implies that in repressive societies, comedy can become a subtle form of resistance—its power lying not in what is said plainly, but in what is allowed to slip through under the guise of jest.Ultimately, Freud elevates the joke from a trivial amusement to a significant form of unconscious communication, revealing how even our laughter is structured by hidden desires and tensions. As such, The Joke and Its Relation to the Unconscious provides not only a psychological insight into the nature of humour, but also a framework for understanding how comedy can function as a subversive and deeply human response to the constraints of civilisation.
[Part 2]
